


i do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief

by Nanimok



Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, MI6!Yassen, Pining, Spies & Secret Agents, Yassen Gregorovich Lives, compared to the books, season one AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:42:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25220320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanimok/pseuds/Nanimok
Summary: An AU of the first season of the show where John is alive and Yassen works for MI6.
Relationships: One-sided Yassen Gregorovich/John Rider, Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 20
Kudos: 111





	i do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ireliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/gifts).



Yassen can’t recall the number of times he has yearned to hold John in his arms. His imaginations tend to run wild. He, in turn, tends to run indulgent. It’s the small moments which creeps up at inopportune times. A flash of a kiss. A stolen minute where their hands accidentally brushes. Sometimes, it would be full blown pictures. Pictures of him running his hands, wherever they please, without time ticking down at the back of his mind, or the bitter taste of guilt weighing the back of his tongue. John humming under nimble fingers. John laughing his name as he pulls him closer. But the pictures go as quickly as they come, and Yassen continues on with his life as if the thought had never brushed his mind.

Then John asks him to train his son.

John looks at him, his eyes straining under the weight of his plea. “I trust you with my life, twice over. This is more important. This is my _son._ "

How many times has Yassen wished John looked at him with those same eyes? In a different circumstance, perhaps. In a different life.

“Is there truly no one else?”

“No,” John says, those damn eyes still unwilling at letting him go. “Not for Point Blanc, and not for Alex.”

Yassen rubs a hand over his mouth as he considers the files John hands him.

Alex’s picture looks back.

Little Alex isn’t so little, anymore. Has been free climbing, enrolled in Krav Maga and swimming since he could toddle. It’s a wonder the kid had enough time for himself to make some friends. Maybe it is time, Yassen considers. MI6 has been something like a family business to the Riders. Maybe it’s time for little Alex to be inducted into the side of life his parents tried so hard to keep out of their home.

“Yes,” Yassen says. “I will do it.”

And that’s how Yassen ended up training John’s son.

Yassen hasn’t changed much since working in MI6. The lessons he learnt at Malagosto is stitched into his genetic data. MI6 accommodated his skill set more than he had accommodated to them. So he uses this knowledge, and he pinches and pulls until he’s moulded Alex Rider into the weapon his father needs.

It’s also how his imaginations began changing. As months go by, and blood, tears and sweat are shed, it is not John’s eyes which holds him hostage anymore. No, not John’s, not Helen’s, and certainly not Ian’s.

* * *

Yassen instantly checks that the phone line is secure when he sees Alex’s number. Drumming his fingers on the table, he picks up the phone, expecting the worst.

“Thanks for sending Tom over,” Alex says.

A second where Yassen holds his breath. Then he loosens his hold on his phone. “Hello, Alex.”

“Sorry for calling so late.”

“You’re not supposed to be calling at all,” Yassen tells him gently.

“Yeah, well, I wanted to say thanks. Tom and I had fun. We had a good talk. Tom says you’re cool, but he thinks you’re a serial killer by the way.”

Alex’s friend had come to him on the verge of a crying tantrum. Unfortunately, Helen had stood her ground, and so Tom found his way to Yassen, who was much less prepared in dealing with a frustrated teenager.

“He wouldn’t be completely wrong,” Yassen says, wryly.

“We had pizza and it tasted miles better than what we had for dinner. Although he brought _anchovies_ with his pizza. He did it to spite me, too, because he hates anchovies as well. Who the _hell_ puts _anchovies_ in their _pizza_?”

“I put anchovies in my pizza.”

“Yeah, but you also drink pickle juice like it’s fizzy.”

“Funny, out of the two of us, I would not have said that my eating habits were the abhorrent ones.” Yassen says. “Why did you let him in if you consider anchovies to be such a blight on humanity then?”

“Well,” Alex says. “He also brought coke.”

“I see,” Yassen says. “The price of your mercy is cheap. I’ll make note of it.”

“Are you calling me cheap? I’m not cheap! I just have simple tastes.”

“Yes. It’s simple because it’s cheap.”

“Well, you’re simple because you’re _mean._ ”

Yassen almost chuckles. It seems that not even his teachings could wean out Alex’s bratty little comebacks. “Why are you calling me, Alex? I am not technically your handler.”

Alex pauses, because he could have also called John too, as well as Jones, and they both know it. “But you’re my mentor, yeah? So I can come to you with mission stuff.”

So he didn’t want to talk to John. Alex must still be mad at him.

“Alright,” Yassen says. “Then let’s talk.”

Another pause. This time, it hints at hesitancy. “I can’t sleep.”

“Oh?”

“I can’t sleep,” Alex says again. “I don’t even know why. It’s not like I did anything today. Everything seems so…”

“So?”

“Superfluous,” Alex says. “Shallow. Forced. I don’t like this place. Everyone here seems like walking zombies.”

Yassen can imagine it. He remembers his first time encountering such grandeur. He agrees—Alex doesn’t belong in houses with wide, empty marble dining rooms. He fits better in the lone cabin Yassen took him to for his training.

“You don’t have to like the place,” Yassen reassures him. “You only have to learn it.”

“I know.” A rustle indicates that he’s changing position on the bed. “Were you nervous during your first mission? Did you get the jitters?”

The question was asked in a casual, off-hand manner. But it was calculated. Yassen could tell from the way Alex seems to be holding his breath over the phone, that he knows what a landmine such question is to people in their kind of work. He is testing his boundaries again, like during his training. He’s testing his boundaries because he is alone, isolated and nervous, and he realises this.

Yassen considers it. “Yes,” he says after a while. “Not completely the ‘jitters’, but I was very nervous, and I only had to bury a body. My supervisor gave me brandy and hot chocolate. He then insisted he ran a bath for me. The oil he put in smelled nice. A little too flowery for my liking though.”

Alex sounds shocked. “Dad did that?”

Blinking, Yassen imagines John doing all the things d’Arc did for him. “No, not your father.”

“I thought your first mission was with my dad.”

“Technically, that was my third,” Yassen says. “I consider my first mission as the first job they gave me at Malagosto.”

“Which was?”

“To bury the body of—you could call him my predecessor, I suppose,” Yassen says. “He could be the one considered to have started me on this path. I was to bury the body of my predecessor in this little cemetery by the woods. They sent me there at night, and there were no lights. The cemetery was a resting place for the island’s plague victims around four hundred years ago. I had to dig the grave myself and tip the body in. There was only the sound of my shovel and my breathing. Sometimes, I would confuse the depth of the hole I’ve dug because of how dark it was. It was a little disorientating. I remember wondering if someone would do the same for me one day.”

“ _Jesus_.”

“So yes, I was nervous. Although, not as much as when I thought my supervisor would offer to scrub my back,” Yassen tries to joke. “I was very, very nervous then.”

“Is that really what scared you the most?”

“He was a very unattractive man, Alex,” Yassen says gravely.

Alex gives a small, breathless laugh over the phone. “Tom’s right, you know,” Alex says fondly. “You’re a little crazy. And I guess it’s not all that bad here, even though there’s some woods out here as well. It gets really dark at night.”

“Forests generally do that.”

“You see, I don’t know why Tom’s so scared of you,” Alex’s sentence is broken with a yawn, “you’re an absolute jokester. Funnier than John Mulaney.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“Of course, you don’t,” Alex says wisely. “He’s after your time.”

 _Brat,_ Yassen thinks, but his lips twitches as Alex yawns over the phone again.

“I should try to sleep.”

“Do that, then,” Yassen says, his voice a low, soothing murmur. “You work on falling asleep, and you do your best tomorrow. When you come back, from a mission which you will do very well at, I might add, I will make you brandy and hot chocolate. I might even run you a bath.”

“With lots of bath oil?” Alex asks, hiding his mirth.

“You will smell like one of your mother’s bouquets when you finish. That, you don’t have to worry about.”

“How much brandy will you give me?”

“One teaspoon,” Yassen says immediately. “And if you do exceptionally well—then one and a half teaspoons.”

“Lame. What about a tablespoon?”

“You are sixteen, Alex. You will not wiggle more alcohol out of me until you’re of age.”

“Weren’t you around my age during your time at Malagosto?”

“Two years older. It was a different time back then.”

“This is such a cop-out.”

“Goodnight, Alex,” Yassen says. “Sleep well.”

“M’kay. Night, Yassen,” Alex mumbles, before disconnecting the call.

Yassen listens to the tone dial beep once. Twice. Then, he closes his eyes, and stifles the racing of his traitorous heartbeat. 

* * *

“I don’t know what to do with Alex,” John admits one night, over a glass of malt whisky. “Nothing I say ever seems to be right with him.”

 _Funny,_ Yassen thinks. How it’s the opposite in Yassen’s case—speaking with Alex feels a little too right.

“Teenagers,” Yassen simply says, and John gives a bitter laugh.

“Helen says it’s because we’re too damn similar.”

“Helen is usually right,” Yassen agrees. “You are both stubborn, explosive, and sharp with your words.”

John pauses from sipping his drink. He puts the glass down. “You make us sound so bad.”

Yassen almost laughs, palming his own whisky. Here is another quality they share; their likeness to a puppy at times. “I didn’t say that was bad. It is what it is.”

“You got all that during training?”

“Ask anyone who has been in the same room as you two. They will tell you the same. But… yes. Alex can be too daring for his own good. It’s hard to distinguish good instinct from reckless impulse.”

“Hah!” John sounds a little proud. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Yassen shakes his head. “Of course, you would say that.”

“Has he…” John asks. “Has he tried contacting you in any way?”

Slowly putting his drink down, Yassen weighs the pros and cons of telling the truth. This is, however, one of Alex’s very concerned parent he is talking to. “He called,” Yassen says. “We talked.”

John closes his eyes. It feels a little guilty. “He wasn’t supposed to do that.”

“He knows.”

“So he’s not coping well.”

“He’s doing exceptionally well,” Yassen says. “He was hesitant, as one is on their first mission, but he is doing well.”

 _I told him about Malagosto,_ Yassen doesn’t say. _I told him about the early days. Things I forgot I remembered, and things that nobody—not even you—know about me._

“What did he say?”

“He dislikes the Friend’s house. He finds them shallow and empty.” 

“Did he mention anything about me?”

Yassen diplomatically sips his drink. It burns the corners of his mouth. He lets it rest on his tongue in thought.

“Right.” John shuts his eyes. “Right.”

Yassen taps his fingers against the glass. He considers the best way to approach the jagged remains of his friend and his apprentice’s relationship. “John,” he begins.

John slides his eyes to him, and they’re lined with exhaustion. John’s eyes used to be the only thing he sees, when he would lie back on the bed and indulge himself. It’s not the case anymore. Alex’s eyes are rounder—Helen’s touch in his features—and they crease when he smiles.

Words carry momentum. Yassen could imagine them flinging words like throwing knives. Letting the tension and instant gratification overcome their good sense. To the point where resentment cracks through, and one, dangerous, insinuation about Alex’s existence undoes the years of hurt he was holding back.

“An apology is always a good start,” Yassen tells him softly.

John scoffs, and Yassen knows it’s aimed more towards himself than to him. Even if Alex won’t listen to John’s apologies, he still needs to hear it.

Sighing, John grabs his shoulder, and his palm burns like Yassen’s nineteen again. “Thanks, Yas,” John says. “It makes me feel better knowing that you’re looking after him. Although…”

Yassen waits patiently.

He wonders if John will finally address the glances Alex throws his way whenever he thinks Yassen isn’t looking. But to open that specific can of worms would come hand-in-hand with Yassen’s own messy feelings for John, and no-one wants that. 

John grimaces instead. He shakes his head. “Never mind. Don’t worry about it.”

* * *

Two weeks go by and no word from Alex. Wilby attacks John before John could decipher who Wilby is working for. Wilby is no longer a problem. While little intelligence was gained from the possessions Wilby left behind, Blunt seemed pleased, so something must have gone right. Smithers mentions the phone call ploy, and the technical calibre of their current opponent, and Yassen can't help thinking of Scorpia in all their efficient glory. He brings this up with Smithers, and Smithers mentions that he'll look into it.

Yassen keeps tabs on Alex's little friend. Sending Tom to Alex was a calculated risk and with the risk comes responsibility. For a while, Tom keeps himself out of trouble, if a little downtrodden in how he does it.

Then, Tom uploads a selfie of himself in front of the Roscoe building, and Yassen breaks several speeding laws in his haste to get to Alex's friend.

The operation is blown wide open from that point.

Alex, that brilliant reckless boy, fashions a snowboard out of an ironing board. That is how he breaks away from Point Blanc. MI6 fakes his death, and once Stellenbosch is fooled, Yassen finds himself with the tactical sent to extract the high-profile hostages. It seems that even MI6 themselves forget that Yassen’s not actually Alex Rider’s handler.

“…I know the layout,” Alex finishes. “I know the control codes. I know when someone’s a clone and when they’re not. I can show you—"

Jones shakes her head. “It’s out of the question.”

Alex turns to her, furious. “I have friends down there. I’m not just leaving them.”

“Are you talking about Kyra?” Jones challenges. “Now listen to me, Alex. You think you know her, but you don’t. She has problems! She’s not stable—”

“I wouldn’t be here if wasn’t for her,” Alex cuts in. “Look—”

Alex has the talent of looking fed-up at any given moment. He scowls, ripping himself from the conversations as if he’s about to pick a fight with Jones, when Yassen puts his hand on his upper arm.

There’s two layers of thick parka and gloves under his hand, but the effect is instant: Alex wilts. He immediately quietens. He falls into the touch, dragging his breathing back into control. He uses the point of contact—Yassen’s palm on his arm—to collect himself back together, and from the way Jones’s eyes land on his hand, he’s not the only who notices this. 

“He can take instructions. He is trained,” Yassen says. “He will stick close to either Wolf or me at all times. Will that be sufficient?”

Jones breathes harshly through her nose. “He is not an agent.”

“Then we shouldn’t have sent him to Point Blanc,” Yassen says. “But that was not the case. If you don’t give him clearance now, he will sneak out and go without permission. Is that what you want?”

“You wouldn’t stop him?”

“I trained him,” Yassen points out. “I’m not his handler.”

Alex tips his chin up in challenge.

Jones eyes him up, in all his recalcitrant, belligerent glory, and sighs. Her shoulders slumps.

“Fine,” she says. “But you, Alex. Stick with Gregorovich or Wolf at all times. If I hear even a whisper of disobedience, I’m pulling you off the field.”

* * *

Of course, Alex doesn’t stick with him or Wolf at all times. Alex manages to rope himself into an explosion with Stellenbosch. He is shaken, gritty, and heavily concussed once Snake and Eagle finds him, and he cuddles insistently into Yassen’s shoulders on the helicopter ride back.

* * *

Yassen finds Alex in his kitchen, sipping on a glass of water. He’s in his uniform; shirt and pants pressed, club badges pinned up, and tie knotted straight. The dark, navy blue contrasts very nicely with his hair. Considering how often Alex broke into his house, Yassen had ended up just giving him a key. So, while it’s not unusual to find Alex in his house, it is unusual to find him during school time.

Yassen had pulled a long night dealing with the final debriefing of the mission. He rubs the bleariness out of his eyes as he gets himself a drink.

“Alex,” he says, yawning. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at school.”

Alex watches him—watches his hands open the cabinet filled with colourful, mismatched, ceramic mugs. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Yassen shrugs. “Fair enough."

“Yassen.”

“Yes?”

Alex continues to stare at him, watching his face. Then he comes closer, and a low undercurrent of alarm straightens Yassen’s posture.

“You must know how I feel about you,” Alex whispers. “It’s not like I try to hide it.”

Yassen has imagined this scenario too many times to count. Yet—it’s the details. The lilt of his voice, the slight curve of his mouth, and the hunger on his face. Something about this whole situation doesn’t sit right.

“Alex.”

“Am I not everything you wanted?” Alex says. “I only wanted you to notice me.”

_“I had that dream again,” Alex mumbles into his shoulder, on the helicopter. “Bright lights. Strapped onto the table. People standing around me, but I guess this time it’s really a dream since we’re going home...”_

There were seven student, and seven clones. Seven, but not including Alex. 

Yassen ducks sideways as Clone-Alex throws a glass at his face. Glass shatter behind him, and shards sprinkle on his shoulder. Yassen has a split second of notice as a blur of blue rushes towards him. He puts his arm out in a block, holding back the knife.

This is where the similarities stop, Yassen supposes. This is where the experience gap makes itself known. Greif’s clone could look like Alex all he wants, but he could not fight like Alex. He falls for all of Yassen’s feints and it leaves him vulnerable to Yassen’s true targets; to his throat, his middle, and his instep. His punches are sloppy. He gives too much with his hits.

But Yassen overestimates himself. Once Yassen grabs a hold of his gun, he aims for a clean shot between the eyes—

—and it’s Alex who looks up at him, blood running down his nose, cuts splitting his lip, and doe-eyes wide and trembling.

Yassen—

—Yassen falters.

Clone-Alex stabs his knife through Yassen’s thigh. Yassen’s leg buckles under the blow. The knife is twisted when Yassen tries aiming the gun again, and he can’t help but hiss as Clone-Alex bites his wrist.

The gun falls, and Clone-Alex scrambles on top of Yassen, fingers digging into his throat.

"He kept singing and asking for pickle juice during his interrogation, did you know that?" Clone-Alex sneered, squeezing tighter with every snarl. "Had no idea why he'd care about those things when he'd drugged up. It made Stellenbosch really angry. Then it made sense. That stupid recording on his phone. Brandy, and hot chocolate, and pickle juice—it made sense why he kept asking for it. So that’s what I’m going to do: I’m going to make him pay for taking everything away from me. I’m going to kill you, then kill Tom and make him find your broken bodies while I deal with his parents."

Black spots are forming around his vision. If Yassen wasn't dying he would note a number of things: (1) that he and Alex need a talk about privacy and the volatile ammunition that is a recorded phone call, (2) that he has never seen Alex’s face twisted with so much hatred and vitriol, (3) that monologues are waste of time and efficiency, and (4) that Yassen was retracting his promise of even a slither of brandy in Alex’s hot chocolate.

But Yassen throws his hands out, feeling for a shard of broken glass big enough to be used as a weapon. He comes across a shard the size of his palm and he digs his fingers in, ignoring the sharp tear of pain.

He stabs it into Clone-Alex's right eye. Clone-Alex howls, hands scrabbling at his eye.

Yassen doesn’t make the same mistake again. While Clone-Alex is crouching over and sobbing in pain, Yassen comes up behind him and snaps his neck.

Clone-Alex’s body flops on to the ground, lifeless and limp.

Breathing heavily, Yassen drags his wounded leg over to his phone, ignoring the overbearing and insistent pulse of agony coming from his thigh.

“Hello.”

“John,” Yassen says, breathing ragged. “Is Alex at school?”

A pause. Then, “Yes, he left hours ago. Yassen, are you okay?”

“Are you _sure_?”

“Hold on.” Sounds of someone click-clacking on a keyboard fills the call. “Yes, his phone’s GPS says he’s in class. Same with Tom’s. Now what’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Yassen takes a picture of the dead body on his floor and sends it through.

“ _Holy—_ Is that _Alex?”_

John’s voice is remarkably calm for a man who’s seen a dead body with uncanny likeness to his son.

“Turns out there were eight clones,” Yassen says wryly. “Should not have missed counting class in pre-school, yes?”

John curses over the line. “I’m sending the medics and a clean-up crew. I’m coming around in ten.”

“I won’t be going anywhere,” Yassen says, before hanging up the call.

* * *

Yassen jolts awake from the brush of skin on his palms, and he hisses as his leg twinges in pain.

“Shit!” The hand in the dark reels back. “Sorry!”

Yassen blinks through the heavy haze of painkillers as the figure turns his bedside lights on. “Alex,” he says, pushing himself up the headboard. “What are you doing here?”

Alex looks—inexplicably young in his blue shirt, and long cardigan. He kept his fringe, but it’s rebellious edge does nothing to harden his soft face. “Dad said someone should be here to look after you so mum sent me over with food.” He tips his chin up. “I’m staying the night.”

Ah, so Alex pushed to come.

 _If they only knew,_ Yassen thinks.

Although… from the looks Helen’s been throwing him, Yassen suspects that she’s about to pay him a visit in the future.

“Alright,” Yassen says. “You know where the guest room is.”

Alex ignores the subtle dismissal. “Kyra’s okay—ish. She broke out and talked to me. Her parents are dead. I don’t think she’s okay after _that_ , but she’s getting better.”

“I’m glad.”

“Tom hopes you’ll get better soon. He thinks you’re not that bad for a serial killer." 

“I should hope so,” Yassen says drily. “I worked very hard to keep him from becoming jerky.”

Alex gives out a breathy laugh which suddenly turns shaky. He reaches out, almost hesitantly, and becomes more emboldened as Yassen doesn’t jerk away. The tips of his fingers land on his palms, brushing against the bottom of his bandages.

“He got so close. You even have…” Alex gestures at his own neck.

Yassen grimaces. The blue collar around his neck can’t be that pretty. Even with all the drugs coursing through his systems, the sting when he swallows is only mildly dulled.

“I hesitated,” Yassen admits. “I shouldn’t have.”

Alex looks wrecked. “Because he looked like me.”

It’s not like Yassen can honestly deny it, with Alex’s doe-eyes trembling with tears right now.

Alex wipes at his eyes roughly with his hands.

Suddenly, Yassen feels wrong-footed. Like he’s tethering on the edge of a cliff and he’s clutching on rope that’s worn down to it’s last threads.

“I’m sorry,” Alex says quietly. He clutches Yassen’s hands and presses his forehead against it. “I’m sorry. I should have known he was still there. I should have figured it out.”

“Alex…” Yassen pries his other hand of the bed sheet and, after a second thought, he threads his fingers through Alex’s hair. “Don’t be.”

“I was careless and stupid.” Alex rocks into his hands. “I left _everyone_ vulnerable.”

Yassen can’t handle this—can’t handle the crack in his voice. “Yes, because a sixteen-year old should always be the crucial point of a mission.”

Alex sniffles. “What?”

“Alex, look at me,” Yassen says, softly tugging for his attention. “Listen to me well. Caring is a risk. It will always be a risk. But I signed up for this, knowing full well what I was getting into.”

“I signed up for this too.”

Yassen almost smiles at Alex and his famed stubbornness. “No, you didn’t. A choice is only a choice if there are no repercussions for saying no.”

It takes a while for Alex to finally concede with a nod, and then Alex is crawling up onto the other side of his bed, stomping over any kind of carefully constructed boundary. In the soft light of his lamp, and his dark bedroom, Alex looks so right, huddling into his blanket and stealing a whole pillow for himself.

“You know you can have a whole double bed to yourself in the guest room?” Yassen points out.

“I know,” Alex says. Then he pointedly keeps his eyes closed.

Shaking his head, and feeling lethargy finally settling into his bones, Yassen turns off the lights and gingerly slides himself back into bed.

“Besides,” Alex says. “How can I check on you when you’re in another room?”

“Like everyone else.”

“That’s boring,” Alex says. “You don’t ever want to be boring.”

“Ah, yes,” Yassen murmurs. “The infallible enemy of youth. Tedious monotony.”

“I bet you were nutty when you were my age,” Alex peels one eye open, “I bet you blew up cars left and right before you decided to work for MI6.”

“Not quite,” Yassen says, before he even realises it. “I let a round of Russian roulette decide for me.”

_“What?”_

Yassen can hear Alex shuffling to get a better look at him, but Yassen can hardly keep his eyes open. “Isn’t that what you expected?”

“Not!” More shuffling noises, and heat at his side as Alex rolls closer. “Not… _that.”_

“When your father sent me to MI6, I took a detour.” Yassen yawns. “I put five bullets in with one empty chamber. So many forces were pulling my strings back then—I felt like a puppet. I decided, then, if I lived… this would be my life to live. My choices to make. My mistakes to live with.”

Alex is quiet, and they settle in the silence, the rhythm of their breathing mingling with each other in the intimate space of Yassen’s room. It’s lulling, and Yassen is on the precipice of quiet sleep when he hears Alex’s voice.

“I’ll be better next time,” Alex promises quietly. “I’ll make you and dad proud. I’ll be stronger and I won’t make you regret training me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this with no plot in mind, just _Monster_ by Seulgi and Irene on repeat. The show is so good please watch the show.


End file.
